


Through Heaven and Hell

by crowley_hell_pet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley and Feelings, Demons, F/M, Gen, Hell, Imprisonment, Knight of Hell Dean, Romance, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowley_hell_pet/pseuds/crowley_hell_pet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the beginning of season ten, some AU may be involved. </p><p>Crowley has found himself discontent in ruling Hell. </p><p>Brenna Michaelson finds herself in one hell of a predicament when she's imprisoned in Hell's dungeon. </p><p>When Crowley finds out a human has infiltrated his domain and been captured, he's mildly intrigued. </p><p>But Brenna has a secret, one she can't hide from the man who reads souls for a living...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This really wasn't technically going to be Supernatural fanfic, despite the original concept being inspired by Supernatural back in season 4 when Sammy was trying to break Dean's deal. 
> 
> But, as Crowley said, he deserves to be loved. And what the king wants, the king gets...
> 
> PS it's the middle of the night and at work so there may be some errors!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cleaned it up, fixed some errors and mistakes.

Everything was so out of focus. No matter how hard she tried, nothing she saw made any sense. The blinding light was wrong- it was too intense and distorted. But when she looked away, the darkness overpowered everything. 

No matter what she did, or where she looked, there was nothing to see. Losing her balance for what had to be the hundredth time, Brenna Michaelson cursed her surroundings, and whatever it was that was happeninging to her. 

If only she could remember how she got there. Everything prior to ending up in this strange place was a blur - much like her current surroundings. 

Brenna's head snapped to her left, as she was sure that she heard something. Oddly enough, it sounded like someone was walking through a forest, with leaves crumbling and twigs snapping underfoot. Only thing was, Brenna was sure that she wasn't in the woods, since she figured she would be looking like a drunken sailor, the way she was running as she tried to make sense of everything. Surely, if she were in the woods, all of her flailing about would have crashed her into a tree, or had to fight off the swattings of tree branches; there wasn't even any wind in her face. So there was one thing that she was certain of, even if she didn't t know where she actually was, there was no way she was in a forest. 

In the end, it didn't really matter where she was, as long as she survived long enough to escape and get back home. She had to find a place to hide. The footsteps sounded like they were coming closer. While she'd never seen any of the things which were out there, she'd heard enough of the creatures' commotions to know that she didn't want to get caught in the fray. 

The only problem- when you couldn't see, it was hard to find somewhere safe to hide. 

Suppressing a scream of frustration, Brenna trudged on, hoping that whatever she had coming after her would move on and not follow her. So she continued on, though she heard the sound again- but this time it was coming from the opposite side. 

Fearful now of multiple persuers, she raced on, praying for safety. 

Or to wake up. 

Since this obviously had to be nothing more than a bad dream. A very bad dream...

Suddently, there was a sort of shift in the light. It didn't appear to be as ghastly, and the dark wasn't as suffocating. Every once in a while she heard a sound not too far off, as whatever was following her let her know that she wasn't alone. That alone urged her forward, never pausing to wonder at the strange situation. 

Without warning, everything changed. Brenna stumbled, suddenly finding herself in a sparsely lit hallway. The space was dark, save for small torches burning every couple feet down the seemingly never ending corridor. 

Behind her, she could hear the snapping of jaws and dog-like growls. 

But when she slowly turned around to investigate, there was nothing there but a brick wall. As soon as she went to turn back, a hand grasped her shoulder, causing her to scream.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been gone back over and edited for grammar and clarification.

He had never been so bored in all his life, and he'd had a very long one so far, so that was saying a lot.

As he sat upon his throne, he actually thought he might fall asleep as the man before him continued to prattle on.

The only ones he could think of to blame were the Winchesters - since he obviously wouldn't blame himself. Though in all honesty, it was Dean Winchester more specifically.

The functioning morons often found themselves in a jam. And for some confounded reason, they expected him, the king of Hell, to continue to drop everything and come to their rescue! The really annoying part was that he actually found himself doing it.

Repeatedly!

It had to be the lingering effects of the human blood.

'Right,' he thought, trying to convince himself. 'Because you never once came to their aid _before_ you became a blood junkie - as if you were some common low level vampire scum! Because you totally didn't hand them the bloody Colt the first time meeting them!' He thought, annoyed.

Really, he knew he couldn't blame the blood, but it was as good enough a reason as any for those who dared to ask. And anyone who did, wouldn't have the balls to question his answer.

See? It's good to be king.

Sure, both sides had tried to kill of the other more than once. Though really they were more half-assed attempts than anything. More a going through the motions ritual. Something to show _hey, we tried_!

Still, despite the fact that the Hardy Boys tended to get in his way, they proved useful on more than one occasion.

He found that whenever he went topside, that there were adventures to be had. Things were exciting. You never knew what you'd get, or what information you could uncover. While this - this was Hell.

Glancing over to his left, Crowley saw his second-in-command, Gerald, yawning. Rolling his eyes, he couldn't help it any longer.

"I'm surrounded by idiots," came the deep, raspy voice, with its English lilt, cutting off the complaints of the demon before him.

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing, and just stared at Crowley.

Realizing what he'd done, he straightened his posture and tried to look more intimidating. This was Hell, after all.

"I'm - I'm so-sorry, my king," stuttered the man before him.

As King of Hell (and Crossroads), it was his job to make sure that Hell was being run smoothly, souls were being traded, and there was general schemes afoot to try to take over the world.

Okay, maybe the last part was slightly exaggerated.

Especially since Moose and Squirrel would never let that happen.

Unfortunately, the king was getting bored. And a restless king was a sloppy king, as his slip of the tongue had just demonstrated.

Sure, he should be thrilled. Abaddon had just been recently defeated, putting him firmly back on the throne. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder if that had really been what he wanted, or if it was just his pride getting in the way of common sense again, much like the deal he had made when he was human which had landed him in the pit in the first place.

Plus, there was the issue of whether or not he could trust his minions, and which ones were ready to betray him at a moments notice.

Until Miss Knight-of-Hell-Bitch had come along, he thought himself to be pretty content. And he had trusted his people. They did as he commanded. Generally.

Sure, there were always a few dissidents in the ranks, but he'd never worried about being suspicious of _everyone._ And those who defied him, they met their end for crimes of treason.

Again, he blamed damn Dean Winchester! Crowley was getting antsy and wished to be free to take a good howl at the moon with the man who he had once considered to be his best friend. If he had a heart, he thought it might feel wounded over their dissipating friendship. Not that he'd ever let on that he cared.

And alas, those days were gone. Dean was human again. Though he did realize that since regaining his humanity he hadn't really threatened him at all. Point Crowley, he supposed.

Now he needed to think about Hell, and his people - which Dean bloody Winchester was not.

_Anymore._

While he knew he shouldn't be prone to outbursts, he'd been on edge the last few weeks. Really, it wasn't Paulie's fault, but he needed someone to direct his anger towards - besides himself.

"Bollocks," Crowley muttered.

If they didn't trust him, how could he blame them? Look at him; he couldn't even get through one subject's grievances!

He wouldn't trust him either, if roles were reversed.

"Continue, Paulie. You were saying?"

"My liege, are you well?" The demon asked him.

People were beginning to whisper again.

Crowley had been extra harsh and brutal recently. Everyone, except those it was directed towards, thought maybe it was a good thing - a sign that their old king was returning to them. Others just thought he was nuts.

"Yes, yes. Rainbows, puppies, and all that nonsense. Now, continue," he demanded, pinching the bridge of his nose.

When Paulie was finally finished conveying his displeasure over his trivial life, Crowley gave him a few platitudes and a mission to keep him busy.

"Marcel, anything new to report?" Crowley asked his dungeon guard.

"Actually, my king, we had the most peculiar thing happen a while back," he started.

"Really?" Crowley asked. "Something _peculiar_ happened? I'm on pins and needles to know more."

Marcel glanced at Gerald, looking for some sort of guidance. But all he received was a shrug as the man looked away.

Stammering, Marcel quietly answered, "Um, we'll, it -um..."

"Really?" Crowley asked, drawing out his English accent. "Your sniveling is most unbecoming. Tell me something, Marcel. Now, if something _peculiar_ happened 'a while ago', why am I just hearing about it now? Hmm?"

The cold hard stare was enough to make Marcel want to run screaming from the room. It was a look that had made mightier demons than himself cower in fear.

"I'm waiting," Crowley replied in a sing-song tone.

"We'll, um, you had, well, sort of been dist-" Marcel started, but quickly backtracked as Crowley raised an eyebrow. "What I mean, Your Majesty, um, is that you'd been busy."

"Right," he drawled, with a roll of his eyes. "Well, then, I don't seem to be too busy now, do I?"

Marcel shifted nervously. He knew he had made several blunders with the situation - that was becoming increasingly obvious. This needed to be quickly rectified so that the king didn't get cranky (well, crankier) and decide to make an example of him. He'd be lucky to get the rack, and not just be smited on the spot.

"We'll, you see, the thing is, I was doing my rounds in the dungeon. And I came across a girl."

Letting out a chuckle, the king proclaimed, "We've lots of girls here, mate. She tickle your fancy, that it?"

"Sir, what I mean is, she's not one of ours. She was wandering the halls, and-"

"And what, Marcel?" Crowley asked, furious, as he got off his throne. "So someone who doesn't belong here, was just freely roaming around, and now you're telling me that you're making excuses as to why I wasn't immediately informed?"

This was unacceptable.

This was HELL! Not some sorority house! People weren't free to just come and go as they please.

And he most definitely should've been hearing about a security breech as soon as it happened!

"Where is the girl now? Did you question her?"

It was painstaking to think about how such a question was necessary. Apparently though, people around here were lax and unreliable.

He'd have to remember to do something about it later.

Looking to redeem himself, Marcel quickly answered, "I locked her in the dungeon, sir. I questioned her extensively," he said with a sick smile, "but she was uncooperative."

Pacing, Crowley was unsure if he should be finding pleasure in the girl's torture, or be impressed that she had held out against Marcel.

Then again, based on Marcel's recent decisions, maybe he was beginning to lose his touch.

Either way, his subjects were dismissed and Crowley began to make his way into the deep dark bowels of Hell.

 

***

 

Claire was getting frustrated. It had been two days, and she still couldn't get ahold of Brenna. While she wanted to believe that everything was fine, she began to get that sick feeling in her stomach when Brenna never showed up to work the night before.

It first started when Brenna wasn't in class. When she'd talked to her the night before, she had sounded distracted. Despite Claire asking if things were okay, several times, she had been assured that everything was fine. Eventually, Claire had no choice but to give up and believe her friend.

"Claire, I'm sure you're turning nothing into something," Rachel tried to assure her as they ate their lunch between classes.

"Did you try stopping by her room?" Bret asked.

Nodding, Claire told them that she had stopped by after she got ahold of another coworker to cover for Brenna. "I stopped by her floor and talked to her RA. She went into the room and said Brenna wasn't there, but that everything looked normal."

In fact, the more that everyone tried to tell her that everything was fine, the more she believed that something was terribly wrong.

"I don't know how to explain it, guys. I just have this really bad feeling that Brenna is in trouble."

Sitting back in her chair, Claire tossed her half eaten yogurt at her tray.

She couldn't believe how her friends, BRENNA'S friends, were just blowing off her disappearance.

The two of them had been friends since the beginning of their freshman year of high school. Claire knew Brenna. She didn't run off with a guy, or go to a party, and she didn't blow off work. The fact that no one wanted to take her seriously was starting to grate her nerves.

These people were supposed to be their friends!

Finally, Claire couldn't take their condescending reassurances anymore. Grabbing her tray, she told them that she needed to go to the library to work on a project. Bret and Rachel barely looked up to say goodbye, right before Claire stormed off.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gone back over and edited for grammar and clarity.

When she had first found herself in the hallway, she thought she'd found a way out of the nightmare. Instead, she found herself falling in even deeper.

"Who are you?" came the gruff, demanding, voice.

Hope began to blossom. Maybe she could finally get someone to make sense of what was happening, and find her way home.

"My name is Brenna. Please! You have to help me!" she cried.

The man who owned the voice grabbed her shoulder to turn her to face him. "Do I, now?" he scoffed.

At his tone, she realized that perhaps she had not found her savior. Panic began to well up deep within her.

She was caught off guard as he spun her around, causing a gasp to escape her lips. She could have sworn that the voice had come from the opposite direction.  

"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I just want to go home."

But it was useless.

Instead of being led out of this place, she was led to its deepest, darkest corner. After what felt like weeks, her captor came back. She was weak and malnourished, barely able to even lift her head to look up at him, which didn't please him at all.

Never before, had Brenna believed she would experience torture like she had in this man's hands. Her body was broken and bruised, only for her to wake up whole, and have it start all over again.

She prayed every day that there was something out there which could hear her, and bring her death. It would be welcome, for anything was better than this.

This man was sick and twisted. The pleasure he gleamed from her screams was palpable in the small room. Every day was different, she never knew what she could expect, which made it harder for her to try to steel herself against the onslaught. How can you brace yourself for something, when you don't know what's coming?

She was sure that was his intention.

During his 'sessions' he would ask her questions about who and what she was, and why she was there. But she didn't have any answers to give him. She didn't know why she was there. As for what she was, he didn't want to listen that she was just a normal girl.

Just as she started to believe that this was her fate for the rest of eternity, he disappeared, leaving her chained in the dark dank cell.

At least a month or two had passed, she thought, wondering what her family and friends were thinking about her disappearance. Her mother must have been beside herself, as Brenna and her older sister, Mandy, were all she had, ever since her dad had died two years ago.

She thought she heard someone approaching, but she couldn't even bear to look up at the man. Having this long reprieve (despite being starved in the process) had left her with just bad memories of the torment which had been bestowed upon her flesh. Honestly, she didn't know if she would be able to survive, were it to start back up now.

"Hello, darling."

That voice. It was different than that of her captor. Yet, she could have sworn that she recognized it from somewhere. Then again, now she knew the truth - there was nowhere but here. The rest of the world ceased to exist, except for this dark, dank pit. Despite a nudging sense of know, she couldn't even be bothered to look up at the new man. Besides, she wasn't sure if she really had the energy needed to complete that one simple action. She was too emaciated to even consider herself a person anymore. Every once in a while, she wondered how it was that she was still alive. Then she just figured it must be the same way that the man kept making her whole again.

And what did it matter what the man looked like? One captor was just the same as the next.

She wished that she had the energy to spit at the shiny Italian leather shoes that were in her view as she stared at the floor.

"Go ahead, do your worst. It doesn't even matter anymore," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The gleeful chortle filled her ears, as her stomach filled with dread.

Oh goodie, the sick fuck had returned.

"How I did miss playing with you," he said, as nonchalantly as though he were addressing having missed a school friend whom he hadn't seen in years.

At the threat, Brenna couldn't hold back the soft whimper, which only made him giggle louder, as his pleasure intensified.

"Marcel!" the Englishman chided. "You're dismissed."

"What?" the man exclaimed, sputtering.

Brenna wanted to grin, but she wasn't sure that this man was going to be any better than the last. Letting out a sigh, she just closed her eyes and prayed for it to all be over.

"I'm sorry, did I stutter?" the new man said forcefully.

"But I found her! I've been working her all this time!" he exclaimed, angry. "This isn't fair, that I don't get to be the one working her, or at least get to be there!"

"I don't think you understand what I'm saying, Marcel. I don't mean that you're just dismissed from the room, or for your job for today," he said slowly, letting his words sink in.

Brenna heard a hiss, which she assumed was from Marcel.

"Sir, please..." he started.

But he didn't get to finish. Brenna smelt the smoke and the sulfur. Even from staring at the floor, she could see that there was a column of smoke and fire rapidly twisting up the man's body.

At the sound of his screams, Brenna forced herself to glance up. This was a glorious occasion indeed, and she wondered what he had done to piss off this guy. Yet, seeing how he was capable of easily dispatching the man in front of her, she was also equally fearful of what he was going to do to her.

While she was distracted by watching Marcel get what was coming to him, she hadn't even noticed that the new arrival was standing closer to her. Suddenly, the manacles that bound her to the wall were gone, and she was falling.

She was afraid what would happen when she hit the ground. Her body was so weak, she was sure that all of her bones would shatter upon impact.

But that wasn't something she had to worry about.

The feel of strong arms holding her up from behind assaulted her nerve endings. She'd been deprived of skin-to-skin contact for so long, or any touch that wasn't painful, for that matter, that she still flinched at the contact. His voice was low and making soothing sounds, and as she breathed in, she inhaled his scent - it was a heady mix of whiskey and something woodsy.

Gently, he lifted her in his arms, with her head in the crook of his neck, as he led her past the ashes that now lay scattered upon her prison. Sneaking a peek up through her hair, she gasped.

"Oh my god," she whispered. "It's you."


	4. Chapter Three

Crowley sucked in a breath, as if punched.

Surely...

"Save your strength," he whispered. "We can talk soon enough."

It must have been a sight, the king walking through the halls of Hell with a young woman who was barely more than a skeleton in his arms.

But he didn't care. The moment he saw her, he realized the mistakes that he made might have cost him more than he would have cared to pay.

With the sound of his voice lulling her, Brenna rested her head on his shoulder, with her forehead against his neck. She could feel the pounding of his pulse, which quickened her own. Closing her eyes, she let the assault take over her senses.

The good, the bad, the murky greys of the inbetween. They all came at her.

She saw the horror, along with the beauty, and sighed a breath of contentment.

 

After several minutes, he slowly deposited her on an oversized canopy bed. She whimpered against the soft silk sheets, barely able to believe that something could feel so soft and nice. The pillows behind her back and head kept her upright, which was good, because she wasn't sure she could do it on her own.

His eyes never left hers. With the snap of his fingers, a tray appeared before her. It held some water, juice, and chicken soup which smelled good enough to kill for.

Her stomach growled, giving away her hunger.

"How long has it been since you ate, Layla?" he asked, cross.

She tried not to flinch, but the harshness of his voice was like the crack of a whip.

He saw her subtle jerk, and he instantly reprimanded himself. He knew that she was fragile, and frightened. The last thing he wanted to do was cause any more scars.

He already caused enough.

"First of all, it's Brenna, not Layla. And I'm not sure how long it's been. I was left there for quite a while," she said, lifting her head to meet his eyes.

His cheek twitched, and Brenna could tell that he wanted to say something, instead he just pointed toward the tray before he got up and walked out of the room.

As she took several small sips of the cool water, she could hear something coming from the adjoining room. It sounded like water. Closing her eyes, she could swear that she also smelled the faint aroma of lavender and honey.

The sound continued as Crowley came back into the room.

"Eat a few bites. I know it may be difficult at first, because you're so weak, but you have to get your strength back up."

He stayed at the bottom of the bed, unsure really of what he should do next. This feeling of helplessness wasn't something that he was used to dealing with. And he hated it.

She wasn't able to eat much, but he seemed pleased that she was able to keep anything down.

It was a good sign.

"Do you think you can stand and walk, if I help you?" he asked.

Nodding, she slid her legs toward the edge of the bed. Before she could blink, he was there, with his arm around her shoulders, helping her to her feet.

"I drew a bath for you in your washroom. I don't want you in there alone, in case you fall or are unable to wash yourself," he said, trying to remain calm. "I can have someone else come in if you-"

"No, that's fine. You can stay," she quickly assured.

She didn't want any of the other demons in there with her, watching her (or worse, helping her) bathe. While she knew in the back of her mind that she shouldn't trust Crowley, she figured she might as well as stick with what she knew. At least she was certain that he wouldn't kill her, or worse.

Realizing that he hadn't said anything, she snuck a glance over at him. His face was tight, and his jaw was clenched.

"Unless you have somewhere else you'd rather be," she amended, thinking that he didn't want to be stuck in the bathroom with her.

"No!" he said, a little too quickly. "No," he said again, softer, looking at her. "It's alright. I'll stay and be of any assistance that you may need."

Smiling, she turned her head back to watch where they were going, when she let out a soft gasp.

"Oh, my! This is your bathroom?" she cried, taking in the room. It was bigger on the inside than she would have guessed, and it was covered floor to ceiling, in white and light grey marble. Along the wall opposite of where they entered there were two fountain sinks, with a rich mahogany vanity between them. It was filled with what looked like creams, salts, scrubs, lotions, soaps - everything you could imagine.

Her eyes continued down the wall, where in the corner there saw a large sunken tub. It was bubbling, with a low muffled rumble, which she assumed were jets. Along the wall which had the door they were standing in, there was the biggest shower that she had ever seen. It had several rain spouts hanging from the ceiling and the clear glass showed several jets at varying heights.

Looking back at Crowley, she saw that the wall closest to them had a black and chrome fireplace inlay, which was currently on, and set a soft glow over the several large oversized, overstuffed, chairs and ottomans which had been placed at odd angles.

"No, darling, this is _your_ bathroom," he replied hesitantly. At the look of confusion on her face, he continued, "Or not. But first, lets get you cleaned up. Then we can talk."

She wasn't sure what there was to talk about. But she wasn't really sure if it was wise to disagree with him at this point. At least not until she was stronger.

Crowley led her over to the tub, and helped her out of her ill-fitting clothes. He tried to be a gentleman as she stood before him, stepping down into the tub, but it was difficult.

What he saw, made him sad, though. Here was a once vibrant and delicious woman. Now he could see almost every bone in her body trying to break through the confines of her skin.

Her groan brought him back to reality. At first he thought something was wrong, until he realized she was sitting on the bench, immersed in the bubbles.

The smile on her face as he saw her finally begin to relax, made him smile in return.

Grabbing a cup, he gently scooped up some of the water and let it trickle down her head until her hair was wet. Brenna seemed to be enjoying the moment of being pampered, so he continued to work her hair into a lather with the shampoo, and then the conditioner.

Sponge in hand, he squirted some warm body wash on it and lifted her hand and deposited the lathered sponge in it.

Surprised, she glanced up.

Trying not to chuckle, he said, "I would have thought you'd want to keep some of your dignity, love."

"Oh," Brenna said, face flushing. "Right."

"Not that I'd be complaining."

Brenna's only response was to grunt, as she began washing herself. It wasn't easy, but the warm water and the jets had loosened up her muscles, so it wasn't quite as difficult as she initially thought it might have been.

When she was done, she glanced over her shoulders to see Crowley standing there with an oversized bath sheet.

As she tried to climb up the steps out of the tub, she stumbled.

Cursing, Crowley dropped the towel and caught her.

"Sorry," she mumbled, realizing that she was naked, and pressed against the front of the man before her. Water from her hair and body were dripping down the t-shirt she hadn't seen him change into, causing it to cling to his broad chest and abs. Tearing her eyes up and away, she was met with the heated look in the man's eyes.

Biting her lip, she apologized again, and tried to make her way over to the towel, pretending that she wasn't naked - and that he wasn't watching her with the eyes of a predator.

Pulling himself together, Crowley rejoined her and made sure she didn't have any trouble putting on her undergarments and nightgown. Once she was dressed, he helped her back under the covers of the bed.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment. She needed to collect herself. The man - no demon, was having more of an effect on her than he should.

Not that she was surprised.

"Crowley," she said softly, opening her eyes.

But he had vanished from the room.


	5. Chapter Four

Days passed, and Crowley was still nowhere to be seen.

A woman, Maya, came to check on her several times and bring her food and water.

At first, Brenna would ask about him, and when he was coming back. Eventually, she stopped. It was no use; Maya wasn't going to give her any answers.

Her strength came back, and Maya helped her walk the halls, always making sure she was safe.

She wasn't like the rest of them. Maya was nice, and seemed genuine. Most of all, Brenna was grateful that she didn't seem to be bothered with babysitting the human.

One day, they were on one of their walks, when Brenna heard a growling and commotion behind her.

Turning, she looked back to see what was going on. Maya tried to get her to just keep going, but curiosity was getting the better of her.

Letting out a gasp, she watched as a demon yanked a chain, dragging a fierce looking beast behind him. The animal was making strange sounds as it was led down the hall. Its teeth bared, he rushed toward the demon, ready to bite down. But the demon kicked the beast in the face with his heavy boot.

The animal let out a screech, and continued to be dragged.

"What's that?" Brenna whispered to Maya, who just stared at her, mouth wide.

Brenna just looked away, unsure what she had done wrong now.

"You can see it?" Maya asked, perplexed.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, it's just that people can't usually see them - unless they're hunted by the hounds or have lenses which passed through holy fire. Even here, people can't usually see them," Maya said thoughtfully.

"That's a dog?" Brenna asked incredulously.

"Sort of," she replied with a laugh. "He's a hellhound pup."

Glancing back at the massive creature, Brenna let that sink in.

While she knew that she should be frightened of the overgrown hellhound _pup_ , she couldn't help but think that he looked pitiful. Perhaps he was just as scared as she was.

Faking a bravado that she didn't feel, Brenna straightened her spine and stopped, tapping her foot. She stood there, arms crossed, waiting for the demon and hound to get to her.

"What are you doing?" hissed Maya, nervous.

The demon sneered, sensing her humanity.

"Get out of my way," he said, as he tried to shove his way past her.

"I don't think so," Brenna said, putting her hand out to stop him.

The demon froze in place, eyes wide.

Here was the tricky part. The dog was still pulling against the chain, snapping and snarling.

"Shhhhh, there, pet," she said, stooping in front of the dog. "It's ok, baby," she whispered.

Slowly, Brenna extended her palm toward the leery creature.

She watched as his giant snout wrinkled as he sniffed at her hand. When he looked up at her, she couldn't help but smile.

"What's his name?" Brenna asked Maya, ignoring the frozen demon.

Maya stood there in shock. It took several tries before she was able to answer, "Sherlock."

Giggling, Brenna crooned, "Sherlock, come here you big puppy baby."

"Brenna, we should be going," urged Maya.

Nodding, Brenna stood. When she reached the demon, she grabbed the leash. Letting out a whistle, Sherlock trotted contently behind her.

"You shouldn't do that," Maya warned.

"Why?" Brenna asked. She knew she shouldn't take him, but really, what was the worst that could happen?

Sighing, Maya just shook her head.

"Crowley isn't going to like it."

'Good,' thought Brenna 'Let him not like it. Then he can finally come and acknowledge that I'm still here.'

 

***

 

He was avoiding her.

It was wrong, and he knew it. She had been abandoned in the dungeon for who knew how long. Now he was leaving her again.

Granted, her surroundings were much more pleasant. And he made sure that Maya kept an eye on her, making sure that she ate and regained her strength.

But still, there was a twinge of guilt.

When he first saw her standing there in the dungeon, he wanted to rip out his own heart to heal her.

But he couldn't.

Well, he _could_.

Hell was already up in arms over his affiliation with the Winchesters. He didn't need tongues wagging more because of another human.

Even if it was _her._

She could deny it all she wanted, but he knew who she really was. He would always know her.

It might have been cowardly, but he needed to get out of Hell for a little while.

That's why he found himself sitting at a bar, drinking whiskey with Dean Winchester.

"What's your problem? You're even more surly than normal," Dean observed.

Rolling his eyes, Crowley muttered, "None of your business, you damn monkey."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, slightly offended. Grimacing, he conceded.

It wasn't his business. And they had actual business to attend to.

"Fine," he gruffled. "The Mark. You said that had a plan?"

Laughing, Crowley, stated, "I didn't say that I _have_ a  plan, but more so that we needed to _get_ a plan."

"Great. Freaking great. We drove all the way to Indiana from Florida, and you don't even have a plan?"

Dean was getting irritated. He was tired of having his chain jerked. This was his life that was being messed with.

Granted, he was sure that part of Crowley pissy mood was the fact that he no longer had the First Blade. It had been hard, to hand it over after killing Cain. For a few moments, as he came down those steps, he wasn't sure what was going to happen. He knew that Crowley would keep his word to kill him if he had gone all Sith on them, even if he suspected he might not like it. As for Sam and Castiel, he knew they wouldn't be as quick to join the fray were he to go Guantanamo on them.  

But Dean had to do what felt right to him. While he still didn't trust Crowley totally, he had proved more than once that he would come through. Although, usually there something in it for him. Dean needed to make sure that the Blade was available if it ever truly was needed. And Cas would make sure that it was a necessity before handing it over, and if it was, well, then he would actually hand it over.

With Crowley, it was a crap shoot.

"So, what is your plan to come up with a plan?" Dean asked, taking a swig of his beer.

"Simple really. Cain was killed with the Blade, leaving you the only surviving Knight of Hell, even if you've momentarily donned your humanity again," Crowley started, earning a glare from Dean. "What? You think it won't happen again? Do you know how many times Cain switched which team he was batting for?"

Crowley's face looked like he had just eaten something sour, it was all puckered up.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Dean. "You look a mess."

"Well, bloody thank you for the confidence boost, mate," Crowley said with a grimace.

Usually Dean felt smug at causing Crowley misery. But today, something was different.

Crowley was different.

Dean almost felt...pity.

"Been a bloody long week," muttered the demon.

Leaning back in his barstool, Dean took in the man, face pensive.

He knew he was going to regret this.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Crowley grimaced. "What are we, women? Do you think our time would be well spent sitting around and talking about our _feelings_?"

"Wait," Dean said, deadpan. "You mean you have feelings?" he asked. His tone was mocking, but his eyes showed a trace of laughter, but not _at_ the man before him.

"Just because you think that I'm bloody well beneath you, despite that fact that I'm a KING, yes, Dean, I do in fact, have feelings," grumbled Crowley. "And no, I don't want to talk about them," he finished, drowning another show of bottom of the barrel whiskey, grimacing.

"Blasted crap whiskey you Americans have," muttered a disgruntled Crowley. "What I wouldn't do for a good bottle of 30 year Craig."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. If Crowley wanted his top of the barrel whiskey, then he must be feeling particularly low.

The bartender came over when Dean flagged him down. "Your best whiskey, and leave the bottle," he requested with a smile.

Slapping Crowley on the shoulder, Dean poured the drink into their tumblers.

Letting out a defeated sigh, Crowley finally said, "It's about a woman," and prepared to shred Dean's flesh when he started to laugh so hard that tears rolled down his face.

 

 

 


End file.
